


everything worth hurrying for

by bigelows



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, POV Second Person, Post-Season/Series 02, Prompt Fic, Returning Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22206124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigelows/pseuds/bigelows
Summary: Seasons change, Eve tries to stay the same.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	everything worth hurrying for

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Killing Eve nor am I profiting in any way from this work.

_One morning it was summer, the next you woke up and the whole year was over… How quickly and smoothly, yet how shockingly, when you thought about it, the seasons and the years gave way to each other._

Ali Smith, _There but for the_

* * *

It must be summer, it must be mid-afternoon, it must be hot.

There is bright sun, rough gravel underfoot, and you are three years old.

Sweat drips from your forehead, glasses pool with condensation. It’s your first memory of home.

__

“Mom, I’m sorry I just don’t know if I can get off of work that weekend,” you yell across your apartment in the vague direction of your phone.

It’s late June, you haven’t seen her in over a year.

Her haggard, annoyed reply makes its way to you. You give your usual explanation that everyone with kids is taking their PTO at this same time. Your childless, single existence suddenly the hottest commodity around the office as everyone bribes you to cover for them while they’re away.

“I know, Mom, I know it’s been a year. Time has just… gotten away from me”.

You’re cleaning out your sink. You don’t know why.

“Okay, I love you mom I gotta go. I have a lot to do today.”

She hangs up. You don’t walk over to your phone to make sure. You start to wipe down your counters. They never stay clean for long.

__

It must be fall, it must be morning, it must be crisp and cool.

There are falling leaves, a puffy jacket up to your throat, you are five years old.

Leaves are thrown around you, the sun is peaking out of the clouds. You are so full of joy.

__

“I don’t know why I don’t go back home that often. I guess I’d rather spend the money seeing new places instead of this place I already know,” you tell your latest in a long line of uninteresting dates.

It’s October, you’re so alone.

Your date goes on some explanation as to why she likes to see her childhood bedroom every six weeks. You nod along in all of the correct places, ask the right questions. She’s charmed by you, you can tell. You glance at her lips often enough for her to think the feeling is mutual.

You order another beer, pay for the check on your high annual fee credit card. You want your date to notice but she doesn’t.

When you take her home, she fucks you on your couch, you’ve left Netflix blaring in the background. She’s biting your neck and you fling your throw pillows to the floor.

As you come, you think that you really need to buy a new coffee table. You really need to hang up that painting. You really need to vacuum.

__

It must be winter, it must be evening, it must be cold.

The sun makes the snow glow bright in the night, the sun set hours ago. You are eight years old.

Your snow boots aren’t warm enough, you forgot to put on gloves, there is no school tomorrow. You’re freezing but alive.

__

“It’s a good place to be from,” you’ve come back from your winter vacation spent thousands of miles from your hometown. In this part of the world, people don’t seem to understand spending a winter holiday in a place where this is no chance of snow, “but I’d rather swim on Christmas Day than have a white Christmas”.

Your friends from uni nod their heads, already partially stoned. One of them is now going on about how hemispheres determine our holiday experiences. If the axis of the Earth can impact so many memories, what else can be left to chance? Australians associate heat with Santa Claus, can you believe that?

You can, taking another hit off the bowl being passed around. You’ve never been great at intoxication in public.

You listen as each person details their strange family traditions. You offer up bits and pieces as you deem necessary. You’re already forgetting why you’re there.

It’s January, you want to start anew.

You order food, you drink too much, you watch endless Youtube videos. You feel unfulfilled, restless, like your energy is leaking from your hands, from your ears, from your nostrils. You know it’s the weed, you know it’s because it’s been dark since 4, you know you’ll go back to your empty apartment and sleep for 14 hours.

You feel like a child trapped in an adult’s body. Your limbs akimbo, your thoughts coming out in an unfiltered stream of consciousness. You’re craving chicken nuggets.

“When you think of home, what’s your first thought?”

You’re so high, this seems like the most important question you’ve ever asked.

Most answers are related to the kitchen, or a room or a song or a scent. It’s taken about 45 minutes for your five friends to answer.

The circle started and ends with you. You’re looking at the darkest of nights, frost on the window. The heating in this place really needs to be fixed. You’d like to dust.

“When I think of home, I think of the sound of ice cracking when you pour liquid on top of it.”

Your friends think that’s deep.

You know better.

__

It must be spring, it must be noon, it must be raining.

You know that April showers bring May flowers, you’re outside because it’s better than in. You are ten years old.

There are rain jackets, rain boots in your mudroom. You are barefoot and sopping wet and you can’t find your dog.

You yell and yell for him but he isn’t anywhere.

Your hair is matted to your forehead, you can’t feel your toes, he comes running out of the bushes.

Your relief grows, springs from your chest. You’re crying.

You begin your walk inside.

__

“I haven’t seen my folks in a long time, I think I just need to do this,” you tell your reflection as you practice making an excuse for taking vacation time with absolutely no notice. You don’t do things like this.

You get dressed for work, suitcase opened and partially packed at the foot of your bed. A reminder that you put down a small fortune for a last-minute plane ticket, only business class available. You have to be at Heathrow early tomorrow. Traffic will be a nightmare. You have to do this.

You fluff your hair larger in the mirror before you leave, you know it will frizz the second you walk outside.

It’s April, you’re going home.

Your train is delayed, three people cut you off as you exit your station. You don’t want to go to work today.

You show up to an almost-empty office. Your nervous energy propelling you. You feel hopped up on Sudafed. You feel like you could take off at any moment. You feel like light.

Your new boss arrives 20 minutes later, nose buried in her phone. You follow her to her desk, starting your speech.

She glances up only twice, you’re arranging the pens on her desk into a neat row.

Your arguments are sound, this will never happen again.

She nods her head, asks for you to send your coverage plan when you get a second and you agree.

You go back to your desk, set your out of office message. Type up a backfill plan. Drink cup after cup of coffee. You know there’s no use in pretending you’ll sleep tonight.

The rain today is constant, drumming against the window, darkening the sky. It’s 2pm and feels much later.

“What’s your earliest memory?” you ask your new desk mate, you don’t remember his name.

He’s surprised. Around 8 or 9 he got lost while out shopping with his mum. He remembers standing by the Jaffa Cakes, crying, because he knew his mum would know they’re his favorite. He hasn’t been able to eat a Jaffa Cake since.

He laughs as he finishes his story, expects you to give yours. You just nod and turn back to your computer.

What a weirdo.

__

It’s still spring, but sunny, warm, all pastel colors and green grass.

Your family’s church has an annual Easter egg hunt. You’re determined to find the golden egg.

You’re six years old, too young to be self-conscious, too old to rely purely on instinct.

You don’t find your egg, but you have the colors, the sounds, the candy, your dress, those tights, that smell, that peace.

You walk towards your mom, your basket in hand, ready to share your treasures.

__

You get to Heathrow with no time to spare. Check in, security, finding the right gate just in time.

You’re in the queue, Business Class has just been called, you don’t remember the last time you were this nervous. You’re almost to the front when you stop in your tracks, sniff the air, turn around slowly. A man in a fancy suit curses you out as he powerwalks past you to board the plane, ruining the moment.

Across the concourse, you see a tight ponytail, fashionable and impractical pants. She’s holding a cup of chocolate gelato at 8:31am.

She must sense that you’re staring, she turns around to face you. Puts the spoon in her mouth.

You grab your suitcase and walk towards her.

You’re finally heading home.

fin. 

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: As thoughts of new beginnings arise with the new year, write a story in which your protagonist is going through a period of transition, reevaluating the definition of home, and embarking on a fresh start. How are ideas of home formed in childhood, and how do we reconcile them as adults?


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